The Cursed Book
by inhaleo0oexhale
Summary: Cormac McLaggen is entrusted with a highly guarded secret publication handwritten by the Minister of Magic himself. What happens when the seemingly innocent book wrecks havoc on his life and turns his whole world upside down? Interesting Pairing. HIATUS.
1. Chapter 1

I own nothing except the plot. Please R&R. I really thought Cormac was a bit underappreciated in canon.

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Cormac McLaggen sometimes wondered how he ended up where he was in life. Usually it was philosophical wanderings, mentally of course, through his past accomplishments as he sipped whiskey with the minister. Gods, the minister could talk for days. He had a thick accent that slurred and thickened as he got more inebriated and sometimes they would even sing together, when times got especially tough. That was his life. He was Kingsley's right hand man and confidant. Some days he felt like a secretary or stooge, and others, he felt like the best friend Kingsley had ever gotten.

They had a strange relationship really. Minister Shacklebolt was bred be in control, so it seemed to outsiders due to his calm demeanor and quiet restraint. He could stop a riot, just by asking them politely. He was everything right with the government. And yet he was pants at being Kingsley. Lost his wife due to his inattention, drank like a sailor behind closed doors, and had zero control over his clutter. He had hired Cormac as his personal assistant. Cormac's family was bred for that sort of thing too, like they were destined to be in politics. Or in a politician's pocket, as his father had been.

So when the minister asked for him personally, he had jumped on board. A few good words from his relatives put him in sights -an uncle here, second cousin there. They came in use once in a while. All McLaggens knew how to network. Cormac had been working for the minister for three and a half years, when he started to wonder a little more about Kingsley's past. It had opened some interesting quandaries which were also pondered during weekly whisky night.

It all started out when Arthur Weasley stopped by the minister's office in February to ask to jot him down on the calendar for December-the third week specifically. Cormac had disinterestedly penciled him in for an appointment-some grandbaby was being born or something. But Weasley said they were chums and Kingsley would _want_ to be there. That's what started this whole mess really.

Firstly, when did Arthur and Kingsley even talk to each other? Secondly, who was Arthur to demand the minister's attention? Thirdly, why should Cormac even put up with the man that bore his teenage nemesis, Ron Weasley?

The odd thing was that Kingsley did agree with Arthur, when Cormac had lightly brought it up, as if assessing the absurdity. He did _want_ to be there, and blocked off an entire week for potentially cancellable or reschedulable obligations. Which was honestly unheard of. Kingsley hadn't even taken time to meet his ex-wife for bi-weekly couple's therapy sessions before things went to shit for them.

He felt like a bloody creep. It took him six weeks before he finally uncovered most of the dirty laundry. It was all cloak-and-dagger sort of stuff. The ol' minister was mucking it up with a secret organization back when Potter was Undesirable Number One. That all made fine sense and slowly once the pieces got together, they didn't seem too terrible. Kingsley had singlehandedly lied to the Auror Corps and redirected an entire search effort that costed tax payers hundreds of galleons as they scoured through Tibet on a lost cause for Sirius Black. There was even a large amount of espionage and treason involved as he worked as a double agent. Kingsley pretended to be a bloody muggle protector for a muggle minister, for heaven's sake!

It just all felt like enough to impeach the minister, if word got out. He understood the general consensus was that 'they did what they had to do to get things done' while Voldemort was around, but things just didn't sit right with him.

Then came the worst part of the discovery.

A storybook.

Cormac couldn't let the man write his barmy book. It was in manuscript form, written scrappily and scrawled in the margins of liquor-soaked blotchy parchment. Kingsley sometimes cried over that damned book, wailing as he furiously scribbled the night away. It was like he was purging his soul of every deed done during the dark war.

And frankly, while Cormac thought the things he did weren't that awful, Kingsley sure did.

And so would the general public.

The stack of papers were tightly bound and wrapped with leather, worn from tender touches and mindless fidgeting fraying the edges. It reeked to high heavens like ash, as if he'd thrown it in fire during a fit of anger and hastily cast it back out. The pages sometimes grew grey-black mold, foul enough for Cormac's house elf to personally clean it as if doing a great service to the entire wizarding world.

Kingsley never let it out his sights. He slept with it under his pillow with his wand. It was normally hidden in the depths of his robes. It was even used as a plate, quite frequently. No one thought it was odd, because no one ever saw it.

But it was Cormac's job to look after the minister. So he kept quiet as Minister Shacklebolt slowly lost his wits as he developed an unhealthy obsession with categorically retelling the story of the Second Wizarding War. There was even a glossary of everyone who perished directly at the hands of the dark movement and a wordy apologetic epitaph for the ones who were affected indirectly or unrecorded.

That was the only time Cormac had seen the book up close without snooping. The minister had entrusted him with the gathering of the names. It was a strenuous process and Cormac found himself having tremors in the washroom sometimes, where it felt like he was once again in the midst of the Battle of Hogwarts and it took hours to calm his heart enough to go back to the names of the dead.

It just felt like there was no need to bring such agony back up. Let the past lay buried. So, there was a personal reason really. Nothing so selfish like complete personal gain-more of a greater good, for the commonwealth. Cormac always found himself feeling guilty over his feelings towards the damned book. He wanted to rip it to shreds or flush it down the loo. He wanted to smear it in acid or leave it for hounds to chew. He mostly just wanted to not get the minister impeached because that meant he would lose his cushy job and fat paycheck. But it was also because there was just no need for the bloody book to be published. He would have been dandy if it was a simple diary.

But it wasn't.

The publisher had met with Kingsley thrice in the last month alone which meant it was nearly complete. The secret appointments popped up under the name "speech writing consultation", which meant little considering there were no speeches planned or rallies or anything.

Cormac was always watching the minister's calender like a hawk, always poised to shift or remove an appointment since it was nearing the third week of December.

In fact, it was on the day of Weasley's grandkid's birth that Cormac finally got to touch the blasted thing. Well, do more than touch it.

 _That was the day that_ _Kingsley Shacklebolt entrusted him with the entirely completed diary._


	2. Chapter 2

I own nothing except the plot. Please R&R. I really thought Cormac was a bit underappreciated in canon.

PREVIOUSLY:

 _That was the day that Kingsley Shacklebolt entrusted him with the entirely completed diary._

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 **This is how it went.**

It's a Tuesday. The weather is frosty enough to freeze the stinging rain, but it comes so fast that it feels like pellets rather than droplets. Cormac is cozily nestled in his plushy leather wing-backed chair. His office has a roaring fire that feels brilliantly warm and makes him sleepy. It's midday and he's just had a lunch of stuffed quail and poached figs with the Malfoy heir. Draco seems less instigating and generally less awful, ever since he's come back from his honeymoon.

Cormac McLaggen gets a frantic enchanted memo, a brilliantly red swooping airplane shape drops onto his desk as he lazily doodles on his day planner. He flicks his wand to open it and a howler screams his boss's name like a- well…like a howl, now that you mention it.

"KINNNNNNNNNGSSSSS-LEEEEEEEEEEEYYYYYYYS!"

His ears are ringing and his brain rattles in reverberation like a hammer hitting on a gong and leaving ripples in his skill. The peaceful crackling fireplace bursts forth and spews out Kingsley who quickly steps out. Cormac bolts towards him. The minister's arms carry a bundle hidden within the folds of a soggy towel.

"McLaggen," he pauses to thrust the lumpy fabric into his assistant's nervous hands, "I spilled tea when I heard the message." Cormac blinks owlishly at him. That explains the moistness.

Did the tea do his bidding and destroy the blasphemous book?

He peeks under the fold.

'Looks as atrocious as ever,' Cormac thinks dismally.

"Take it to the publisher."

"I've had the worst day ever. Something out there is against me and my blasted manuscript."

'Yes, currently me and maybe the entire wizarding community, once this is published…' Cormac grouses.

So the minister goes on to explain his supposedly awful day which consists of the icy rain soaking the book to the bone and ink smearing all over, which results in him applying a waterproof charm. In muggle London, a large (possibly rabid) goose attacks him and rips a few pages out, resulting in him having to recast the binding spell. It gets stuck in the loo, when he flushes to enter the ministry as per typical employee entrance methodology, and it shows up waterlogged in the department of magical accidents and catastrophes. Cormac thinks that's because the book itself is a catastrophe to the magical community. He nods as his boss continues to angrily ramble.

His quill is filled with jam and writes only backwards-courtesy of a trick quill he accidentally picked up this morning instead of his own artisan Augury feather quill. So he opts for his muggle pencil, which continues to snap from the force of his final touches.

He tries to take it to the publisher, when his floo passage gets redirected last minute and he ends up in Greece at nine o'clock sharp. The stress of apparating back to England takes a toll on his body and he ends up landing in the middle of the Irish Sea and it's duly noted that the minister cannot swim. But thank gods for the waterproofing charm, right?

Eventually, he has lunch at his office where his new receptionist has ordered crabcakes, only for him to realize contains crab, which he later admits was overlooked due to his stressful day-because it literally has the word in its name. Kingsley is deathly allergic to shellfish. It's one of those things that every one of his office members should know-for assassination attempts and such.

Regardless, Kingsley has just come from St. Mungo's after an epinephrine potion to combat his swelling throat and face, when the memo came howling for everyone on the floor to hear. So he spills his tea, due to surprise, or maybe excitement, Cormac deduces. But it doesn't explain the wetness, from the apparent lack of waterproofing charm.

"Don't ask," his boss huffs, "I'm going back to St. Mungo's. Cancel the rest of my day. Hear this though-Cormac, you get that damned book to my publisher. It needs to be in top condition and in one piece. I need you to do it by the end of the week. You can take the rest of the week off."

McLaggens are creatures of perpetual opportunity, due to their fine breeding and finer looks. Cormac himself knows when to hightail it before one slips his grasp. As he's scrurrying out the office, he turns to see his boss leaving through floo.

"To the publisher. One piece. Or you're **fired** McLaggen!"

His boss catches on fire and goes to see the new Weasley spawn.

Cormac is rendered speechless in the doorway of his immaculate office. He thinks sardonically, 'technically, he's fired…'

All his plans of world domination and ministry takeover are doomed by those last words.

He can't get rid of the damned book. But maybe the next minister would keep him as an assistant?

He leaves the building with a slightly peppier step.


	3. Chapter 3

I own nothing except the plot. Please R&R. I really thought Cormac was a bit underappreciated in canon.

PREVIOUSLY:

All his plans of world domination and ministry takeover are doomed by those last words.

He can't get rid of the damned book. But maybe the next minister would keep him as an assistant?

He leaves the building with a slightly peppier step.

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Which brings us to the slightly upsetting turn of events less than five hours later.

 _The book must be cursed._

It has given Cormac McLaggen the worst day of his life too and he's not entirely sure it will arrive at all, much less in one piece, at the publisher's office.

The events unfolded like a regular day of skiving off work.

Usually he'd leave work early if the boss was knackered, or if he flirted with his coworkers into running his errands for him. That would result in four or so extra hours of free time, where he'd gallivant to the local French bakery for his favorite pastries. Then after dessert and coffee, he would go to the muggle mall to be checked out by the shopping women. He especially liked to linger by the lingerie store.

During winter times like today, he would make sure dinner was the hottest thing he could find and then he would go home and snuggle with his pet cat, Purrseus. It was like the life of a lonely 35 year old woman, but it fit the bachelor side of him. A dog was too needy. A child was too needy. A woman was needier than the first two. It was just him, occasionally the lads playing quidditch, a lady to warm his bead, or his house elf making the spiciest chicken tikka masala.

But tonight was cursed to be different. Because of the book.

His bakery was closed-management thought the blizzard was enough reason to close up shop for the day. So he had to get his hot coffee elsewhere. With his frozen fingers clutching the frozen wad of pages, he tried to clamber down the road against the biting hail. It was like he was an angry penguin, waddling down the barren street. All the businesses were closed.

Eventually he found a bookshop. It was small and barely noticeable, but he saw a candle flickering in the frosted windows. Eager to be warm, he cared not that it was suspiciously coincidental that a book caused him to be at a bookshop. He hadn't been to a bookshop since-well, he couldn't remember. His elf brought him textbooks during his 7th year, and before that, his mother went out shopping for him. He never studied at the library either. He preferred the cozier atmosphere of broom closets and hidden alcoves for the occasional study session, with a willing Ravenclaw or two.

With a little bit of an antsy feeling, he entered the bookshop. The smell of musky old pages assaulted him. It made his nose twitch into a worthy sneer and a chuffed sneeze escaped him. The door's chime alerted the weathered shopkeeper somewhere in the back but he did not wait for someone to greet him. A chair sat in the middle of the shop, looking worn and cozy. It was threadbare and something his great aunt would have owned, but he thought he struck a devilishly handsome silhouette, sitting there as he closed his eyes wearily.

Kingsley's book lay on the table beside him, almost thrumming with life by being with his brothers. Cormac ran a troubled hand over his face and massaged his forehead before kicking his feet up and deciding a nap was in order. It was far too cold outside to walk home in that weather. And he wasn't going to risk apparating with the cursed book.

As his eyes slid closed, he distantly realized this bookshop didn't even serve beverages-practically sacrilege. It was far too warm to be comfortable, he thought groggily, and began to strip off his jacket and gloves.

He awoke to the gentle prodding and murmurs of a blurry old man. After rubbing his eyes to clear the sleep out of them, he realized the owner was telling him that he was closing for the night. The gentle yet firm words reminded him of Kingsley's normal demeanor, not obsessive author-tendencies as of late.

Cormac reached over to the side table to carry the manuscript with him as he got up to leave. His bones felt cold and unused under their skin as he shrugged his jacket back on hastily.

 _The book wasn't there._

Of course it wasn't-really, what did he expect.

"Sir, did you see anyone who took my book?" He tried to say it as droll as possible, while inside he was mentally screaming bloody murder.

"No son, the books here are all mine." He gestured to the shelves in an obvious manner.

"I mean, the book I brought with me. I-it, well it's my book." He tried mentally counting to ten.

"You try'n to steal my books, boy?" The old man narrowed his eyes suspiciously at Cormac, who stood at least a whole head taller than him.

"No. Sir, listen to me. When I came in, I had a book with me. I-I'm working on it and it's mine. It's really important and I need to take it to the publisher by the end of the week." Cormac found himself rambling as he grew frustrated with the unhelpful and obtuse old man. He paced the bookshop and tapped his wand against his knee noisily as the man slowly responded. "Listen-you have a record of purchases right? Who was your last customer today? Was someone in here with me?"

The man began to interject, affronted by the breach in privacy or something he jabbered on about.

"I work for the Minister. It's top secret information. I-", he paused as he tried to navigate the sticky situation he found himself in, "I can get you in a lot of trouble. Impeding an investigation and- and withholding information, there's a lot riding on that book."

The man offered to summon the book, in the event that he hastily restocked it as one of his own. He wasn't too fazed by the threat of the ministry, but there was a slight urgency in his movements now.

Two manuscripts were summoned with a simple "accio manuscript" but neither were what he was looking for. He summoned again, seven other books, under a few other names.

The old man was rifling through his receipts at the front counter. He had a terrible feeling like this was a staged event. A lone traveler wanders into his shop, sleeps quietly, then wakes to accuse him and throw a ruckus about stealing his belongings. It seemed the kind of things that could lead to trouble with the law, and he sure didn't want any trouble.

Cormac watched him eerily still, with eyes that chilled the old man more than the raging storm outside. Eyes a dead mossy green, jaw set like stone. He was handsome and dangerous.

The old man spent about fifteen minutes hunting fruitlessly for a paper trail of the thief before they both sat down edgily at the worn chairs in the middle of the shop.

Cormac's mind had been going a mile a minute as he tried to stop the consuming fear of consequences beyond being fired. Personally persecuted, becoming a social leper, the list was endless.

Before, when Cormac came up with fanciful ideas of sabotaging the book, it seemed like a possibility because he could make it look like a freak accident or someone else did it. But this was solely his responsibility and he was going to be the one to be fully accountable for the misdeeds.

A shudder ran through him.

He didn't even know what top secret information was held within the contents of the book. It could include secrets about the death eaters who remained at large-and they'd be vengeful and come after him, because he was the one who was last seen with it.

He tried to calm himself down. He stared at the old man, who stared back equally uneasy.

"The person didn't buy anything."

That's why no receipts existed for the time when he was sleeping.

Which meant it was someone who was browsing the bookstore-maybe they were taking shelter from the weather like him. Or it could be a political spy who has been tailing him and the entire thing is a set up. Cormac shifted unsteadily, grasping his wand tightly as he turned to glance out the window.

"Don't be stupid," he scolded himself, "you'll get wrinkles if you worry so much."

He tried to take a few calming breaths. "Who was in here while I was?"

The daft old man couldn't be that simple minded. The answer was easy enough.

The man bothered himself with stocking books on a shelf as he puttered about, muttering to himself. His finger tugged the small wiry goatee as he thought deeply.

"…there was a girl."

"A girl?" He got up excitedly and spun the old man on his heels with a cry of joy. Finally! They were getting somewhere. "A girl!"

After an insufferable amount of time, he was able to learn she was a regular and that she said she would be back tomorrow to buy a gift for a friend. Who wanted books as gifts was beyond him, but he joyfully laughed and ran all the way home excitedly.

 _Hope was in the air._

It was frigid like pelting ice and bitter like burning wind. But it was also soothing like hot chocolate his house elf made him and reassuring like the wholesome purrs that his cat made as they both fell asleep on the couch.

For the first time in his whole life, Cormac McLaggen was looking forward to visiting a bookstore tomorrow.


	4. Chapter 4

I own nothing except the plot. Please R&R. I really thought Cormac was a bit underappreciated in canon.

PREVIOUSLY:

For the first time in his whole life, Cormac McLaggen was looking forward to visiting a bookstore tomorrow.

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What he wasn't expecting was to wake up feeling electrocuted. His body shot up like a reanimated corpse from the muggle films and Purrseus screeched before darting off his chest. With two brand new claw marks to add to his dashing good looks, he applied some dittany balm to his chest before showering and doing his damned best to look good. It wasn't hard, to be honest, but Cormac was going to woo the pants off whichever unsuspecting witch took his book. He wore the tightest shirt he could find-the one that stretched over his pectorals when he put his arms down. Of course, his nipples looked like little darts, from the icy air, but he didn't mind. It added to the appeal-possibly. He didn't care. The robes covered that. And the jacket covered the robes. And the scarf hung over the jacket which covered the robes which hid his manly chest clad with t-shirt. So all was well. He would make it a show of stripping the layers, if push came to shove

Cormac McLaggen was a man of little shame.

Once his teeth were brushed, belly as full as his orange tabby cat's, and boots laced tight for strutting, he swaggered out the door.

 _It was time to turn on the charm._

Except it was like a deflating balloon.

 _Ppppppppffffffttttttt._

The shop wasn't even opened yet.

So he got himself a chocolate croissant and a cream cheese danish for the lady. Two searing hot coffees fogged up the edge of the bookstore windowsill, as they rested with a heating charm and Cormac warmed his gloved fingers over their steaming tops.

He really should have realized the bookstore was so near to his favorite pastry stop. It was practically two shops away. He pondered his obliviousness and munched thoughtfully on the flakey pastry. He could feel snowflakes falling onto his eyelashes and wetting his cheeks. He was sure he looked flush like a preteen after her first kiss. It left him feeling revitalized-the thought of making an unsuspecting woman swoon and turning her into putty in his hands. He didn't care if she was fat or skinny, pale or colored, blonde or brunette because any variation of woman was a language he spoke. Fluently.

He felt like bouncing on the balls of his feet, or fidgeting with the scarf's loose strings. It was his old Gryffindor scarf-a sure fashion faux paus but honestly, he loved being a courageous lion. Unless the woman was a Slytherin….

He transfigured his scarf into a dark grey flannel scarf. It matched his black coat well, he thought unabashedly as he stared at his reflection in the dewy window.

The store owner came shuffling down the quiet snowy road about five minutes into waiting. Cormac had applied a warming charm to himself and transfigured a crushed fizzy drink can into a metal stool. He felt his bum grow restless as the old man slowly fiddled with keys to open the store. He had nodded in acknowledgement but the two kept pleasantries to a minimum.

He was a man on a mission. And nothing was going to distract him from his goal.

Except his own childlike impatience and constant need for movement or action. It was like he was a twitchy little ferret, needing to be scampering about and uncaged. He found it nearly impossible to sit on the couch for more than an hour, and it was nearing 9 o'clock when he decided to wander off to the shelves.

He found himself gravitating to the quidditch section but grew bored quickly. Most of the information and player stats he already knew. He memorized the history, knew the moves by heart. There wasn't anything worth reading there.

He browsed some other sections, feeling self-conscious when he neared the romance novels. He mindlessly picked little orange cat hairs off his jacket as he read how to his favorite Indian foods were made. He left the section craving leftovers from last night's dinner he never got to eat.

Soon he found himself in the oddest place reading Hogwarts: A History, bracing against the stack for bestsellers. He genuinely found himself invested in the trivia about the place he called home for so long and became immersed in the easy reading of the text.

"It should have been called A Highly Biased and Selective History of Hogwarts Which Glosses Over the Nastier Aspects of the School," came a scathing, feminine voice from behind him.

He twitched in surprise, twirling around to face the book-stealer.

She was _very_ pretty. Of course that was the first thing he would notice.

She had a giant wooly hat, made of multicolored yarn, sitting atop bushy curls. Her face hadn't changed much. She had a few new freckles across her nose; her eyes were the same molten amber as before.

He knew it was her from her voice alone, as if a carnal part of his brain was trained to recognize it like a bloodhound.

"Hermione," he greeted as cheerfully as possible. His caveman instincts wanted to toss her over his shoulder and take her home to punish her for being so bloody tempting and for yaknow-for stealing his book of course.

She was covered in a large jumper, as if she was unprepared for the weather and transfigured the nearest tarp or sewed a blanket to have arm holes. It was odd. He found himself liking it.

She leaned over his shoulder, by raising herself onto her tippy-toes, and poked the page with a finger like it offended her mother.

"This." She poked the page.

"Bloody." The page turned and she poked it again.

"Book." She skipped an entire chapter and poked it aggressively.

"Doesn't even mention." She flipped it to the back glossary, alphabetically to the H-section.

"House." A dramatic pause. Or Cormac interpreted it as dramatic, mostly because her cheeks were pink and her breaths came in puffs against his bare cheek and he could feel her frizzy hair tickle the back of his neck.

"Elves." He wanted to turn around and snog her against the bookcase. He wondered if she had ever fantasized about that sort of thing. She seemed the type. He sure would spare a thought or two for it from now on. During his whiskey bonding time with Kingsley.

If he moved back slightly, maybe her breasts would press against his back. He thought it futile though, as she quickly caught herself and moved back with a nervous laugh.

"I brought you something." God, now she would think he was stalking her and anticipating her and stuff….which he wasn't doing, clearly.

She raised a perfect brow. So kissable, he mused.

Hermione followed him to the seating area where her heated coffee sat next to her pastry, particularly placed atop the side table in which she stole his book.

He wondered if she was on to him. How should he approach the conversation-like old friends or straight to the point? Suddenly the art of seduction seemed like the worst plan, when faced with his old crush.

He watched her nibble on the edge of the danish, as his eyes caught a sight that made him smile internally. Orange cat hairs adorned her robe too. It was like they were a match made in heaven.

"You took my book by mistake yesterday." It was cringe-worthy and rushed, like the words tumbled out his mouth before he had a chance to stop them.


	5. Chapter 5

I own nothing except the plot. Please R&R. I really thought Cormac was a bit underappreciated in canon.

PREVIOUSLY:

"You took my book by mistake yesterday." It was cringe-worthy and rushed, like the words tumbled out his mouth before he had a chance to stop them.

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"Did I?" She had a curious look on her face. It wasn't the stare she normally gave him, which was full of contempt and revulsion. It was like she was eyeing him up, but not like the normal womanly way. He didn't know what to make of it.

"Yes. I-well", he sighed slowly trying to calm himself. All the practice in the mirror was for naught. "The book, it's my bo-." He broke off before deciding to tell her it was his boss' book. "It's my book. I'm…writing a story. Gods, this is humiliating." He let out a nervous chuckle and ran a hand through his hair. He distracted himself by digging around his inner robe pocket for his handkerchief which he tossed to her so she could wipe the sugary crumbs off her mouth. Not that he would've minded licking them clean. "My book. I have to get it to the publisher today. But you have it. It-" He swore quietly as she was assessing him with a complex facial expression growing more impossible to read as he continued to speak.

"You….didn't read it did you?" His heart beat slowly with the pace of the ticking wall clock by the cash register.

"You wrote the book?" Her voice was strange and garbled, like high pitched as she was ready to cry or scream or something. He realized he must have messed up big time. Kingsley probably started the damned thing acknowledging his African American heritage or started it with "Hello, my name is Minister Shacklebolt and you are reading my psychotic drunken diary." He got up to throw away her empty plate and coffee cup. It was mostly because he was shaking in his boots and needed to move around or else he would flee entirely from nerves.

He could feel her eyes on his back the entire time and he struggled to stop himself from swaggering. How she hated when he did it. He only did it to get eyes on his arse. But she had eyes for one arse, namely him. 'So it defeats the purpose yeah,' he thought begrudgingly.

"I have it at my place." She was quiet when she said it. He almost hadn't heard her as he sat down. A thrill ran up his spine as he realized how close it was to reacquiring and how easy it had been so far.

They both were sitting close enough to each other to feel body heat, and again the quiet bookshop somehow made his anxieties wither away. Maybe it was that funky smell of old pages, or the slow-burning candelabras lining the walls. But he felt like his bones were jelly and that he hadn't just dodged the biggest blunder in his career.

He didn't know what to say to her. She probably didn't want to talk to him. He grew cozy and relaxed in her presence, as she languidly browsed a book plucked from a nearby shelf.

He wondered if she had forgotten she was supposed to pick a gift out for a friend. It would be too creepy if he brought it up anyway. So he watched her out the corner of his eye while gazing at the fireplace across the room. She looked like she was watching him too, albeit less sneaky. It felt nice.

He was so content. If he was a cat, he would be purring all over.

"Your book was really gross." It was soft and barely an octave.

A puff of air left his nose, like he was too tired to laugh but found it genuinely funny. He hummed a noise in response, for there definitely was agreeance on that notion.

"Like really, really gross. I think it had something growing in it."

He truly did let out a laugh at that one. He hadn't been the only one to notice that little bugger. He wondered if she was just trying to keep conversation going or if she liked to hear her pretty voice as much as he did.

"It goes to the publisher tonight." He wasn't sure why he divulged that tidbit but her eyes were warm like mulled mead. He imagined her in a bathtub filled with mulled mead and burgundy rose petals as she sipped lustily from a golden chalice. Her tongue would dart out to lick the rim of the cup, and he would get a glance of the curves hidden beneath the velvety bathwater as she shifted seductively. Cormac was glad he had robes to cover areas that could react. He blamed his mother for his overactive and vivid imagination. Damn her for giving him a great childhood that allowed creativity to blossom.

Thinking about his mother was enough to kill any sort of desire for the pretty bookworm in front of him. He even remembered his dear mum's birthday was in two weeks. He wondered if she would like a book on the latest floral hybrids, since she was an avid gardener. What a great gift, he smugly praised himself. How could he ever doubt the greatness of books as presents? Hermione Granger was a genius. Plain and simple.

"D'ya think that there's a book for a garden enthusiast here? My mother's birthday is around the corner." She smiled that sweet smile when she responded by grabbing his hand and dragging him down a few aisles. Holding his hand. He felt like a schoolgirl the way his heart started racing and he willed his palms to not get clammy. She even asked him if that was the reason he was at the bookstore. She _was_ on to him. Why else would Cormac McLaggen step foot in a dusty hovel like this?

He assured her that no, he was actually a regular here. And the lie flowed out so effortlessly that it was almost redeemable in that she grinned enough that he saw dimples form on her cheeks. What he'd give to wake up to that smile every day.

He ended up dropping two galleons worth of books for his mum. The old codger even offered to deliver it by owl post for free. That warranted a few sickles for being so helpful-mostly because Hermione was watching, but still. He already got his mother an acromantula silk scarf from Italy that was being delivered the night before, when his dad was supposed to apparate the two to have a romantic dinner in Venice.


	6. Chapter 6

I own nothing except the plot. Please R&R. I really thought Cormac was a bit underappreciated in canon.

PREVIOUSLY:

He assured her that no, he was actually a regular here. And the lie flowed out so effortlessly that it was almost redeemable in that she grinned enough that he saw dimples form on her cheeks. What he'd give to wake up to that smile every day.

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The book was at Hermione's flat. He never thought he would be invited to her place. It felt like the world had flipped on its head and he was in some alternate dimension. She invited him in shyly, like she was unsure too.

He declined, while his heart quaked in anger at the utter betrayal for wasting such an opportunity. Instead, he waited at her front door, while his brain yelled foul things that would make his ancestors sneer at his sheer stupidity. McLaggens are opportunistic creatures by nature. Maybe he could change his name and die in a hole.

She came out with the book a few minutes later. The leather was glossy, bindings tight like a Victorian corset, and the pages were crisp and pressed. It was like she remade the book or something.

He eyed it warily.

Kingsley had said, "It needs to be in top condition and in one piece."

It sure was in top condition. He just hoped that none of the contents were changed; that no ink spills were unblotted or misspelled word reworded.

"It's just an old spell I knew." She offered him a tentative smile, like they were sharing a secret. She leaned in closer. He could lower his head and kiss her so easily. "Madam Pince taught me it when we were rebuilding the library after the final battle."

Flashes of spellfire and dead bodies of his classmates lining the great hall burst behind his eyelids. He felt like he was going to have another panic attack. He quickly pulled back from her and tried to swallow tightly, for the anxiety wrung his throat like a boa constrictor. He forced a weak laugh out.

He wanted to stay and joke with her. He wanted to ask her to go out for dinner to catch up. He wanted to lead her to the couch that was surely covered in orange fur like his own and snog her senseless. But right now, he wanted to get to bed and hold his chest to stop the pain that boomed there like a pulsating dark affliction. His knees even felt like they would knock together if he tried to run away right now.s

The past should stay in the past, he thought bitterly.

Cursed book from hell.

He quickly bleated out an excuse to leave and saw her face flash with disappointment as he apparated away. He wondered if his luck had run out since the book was back in his hands. Maybe he would be spliced so that his heart would stop aching so violently in comparison.

The publisher received the book without any maiming or injury to Cormac around dusk. That night he sat with his house elf and drunkenly blubbered a sorry tale. His elf made chicken vindaloo, tongue-scorching and arse-numbing just the way he liked it. It was a pitiful comfort that night, as he woefully made his way to bed. He imagined taking Hermione against the endless shelves well-stocked in his family's mansion. He hadn't visited that room in about a decade, preferring to limit his visits to the dining room or quidditch pitch when he saw his parents. He imagined she would smell like home, and her body would be soft and supple. His hand slipped into his boxers and then, intense dreams were filled with her hungry moans.


End file.
